The Saint Maddox Odyssey

”Vacek! Tomas Vacek! It’s Vacek again!” Gary Pemberton had lost count of how many times he had shouted that name in this match.

The game had reached the seventh minute of the second half. United were attacking again, and Wes Harker’s close-range shot was somehow turned away, which Pemberton still could not quite believe.

”Five and a half million? Good grief, Saint has pulled off a stunning piece of business.” It was no wonder Pemberton said it. Judging by what Vacek had shown so far, five and a half million looked like daylight robbery.

Without the Czech keeper, the score would have been nowhere near 1-0.

Up in the directors’ box, Derek Sallow was quietly relieved that Saint had dug his heels in over the fee. He felt a little ashamed too, remembering how reluctant he had been to hand that money over, and how long the two of them had argued about it.

”This goalkeeper Vacek has been outstanding.” Even United’s chairman and chief executive, sitting beside Whitlock, were shaken by his bravery.

”But United are not finished. The young Brazilian has the ball at his feet, he shoots...”

”Unbelievable! Vacek has saved it again!”

As the Brazilian struck the ball, Vacek threw himself forward, spreading his legs wide and thrusting out a fist to snuff out the danger once more.

”Tomas Vacek! Every Villa supporter should remember that name.” The whole of Villa Park was stunned by the save, and for a moment the noise in the stands swelled again, the first real roar since the opening goal.

”No, still not over, United are still coming. Marchenko, Marchenko, the ball falls to him again...”

”GOAL! Marchenko’s second of the afternoon, and United’s second of the match!”

Vacek could only watch the ball fly into his net, and nobody in claret and blue could blame him. Without that run of incredible saves, Villa would have been three or four down already, and the afternoon would have been a different kind of humiliation.

”Villa are behind again, but their supporters should give their goalkeeper a standing ovation.” After this match, nobody at the club would ever question whether Vacek was worth five and a half million. They would only be grateful Saint had paid so little.

After the second goal, the Villa players looked rattled. Almost to a man, they turned toward the touchline and the young figure standing there with his arms folded.

”Gaffer, shouldn’t we change something? I’m afraid the lads won’t hold up much longer,” Cadman said, leaning in close.

Saint had been weighing the same thing. Leaving it any later would be a risk, particularly with players this young, since a heavy defeat in the first game could leave scars that lasted months. After turning it over once more, he made up his mind and decided to make three changes at the same time.

”Three at once. Villa’s manager can’t sit still any longer,” the United co-commentator said, unable to resist a jibe.

”Villa really do need adjusting now,” Phil Granger said in the studio, nodding at the decision. ”Any manager would be doing the same.”

Teale, Reyes and Jurek were on, replacing Barzley, Carver and Lavelle.

”Oh, this is baffling. Barzley has been far better than Lindley today, and yet it’s Barzley who goes off, leaving the teenager on the pitch.” Nobody in the ground could make sense of Saint’s choice, and a murmur of confusion rolled around the stands.

”George, the boss asked me to give you a message.” Teale caught Lindley in a quick hug before heading to his position.

”What did he say?” Lindley asked, hope and nerves mixed together on his face.

”He says you’re allowed to make mistakes. Don’t be afraid of losing the ball,” Teale said.

”That’s it? One sentence?” Disappointment flickered across Lindley’s face. After an hour of being chased all over the pitch, he had hoped for something more.

”George, don’t you understand what he means?” Teale asked, seeing the look.

Lindley said nothing, only shook his head.

”The boss is giving you a chance. A chance to learn. Why do you think he left you out here and took Andrew off? If you can’t work that out, you’re wasting what he’s done for you,” Teale said.

”A chance to learn?” Clever players often think quickly, and sometimes too much. Lindley turned the words over in his head, and a worry crept in. Was the gaffer really writing off the whole game just to teach him a lesson?

Then he looked across at the touchline, at the man who had picked him out of nowhere, and the worry softened into something else.

”I know what to do,” he said, and followed Teale to his position.

”Go on, then. Don’t be afraid of mistakes. Don’t forget, you’ve got your teammates behind you, and you’ve got me,” Teale said, patting him on the back.

Teale rated the boy highly. Lindley had only just switched to centre-back, but as a veteran who had seen more young talents than he could count, Teale had to admit this lad had every natural gift a top-class defender could want. He could not help admiring Saint’s eye either, because he knew how few managers would have spotted it.

While Teale was waking Lindley up, Jurek was doing the same for Rocher out on the flank, and he did not waste words.

”Antoine, don’t worry about who is marking you. Know one thing only: there is an opponent in front of you, and your job is to beat him.”

It was simple advice, but it was exactly what Rocher needed to hear. With his ability, there was no way he should have been shut down the way he had been. Sixty minutes in, he had barely been seen, and the longer the game went on, the more he had started to treat Duarte like a wall rather than a man.

The heart of Saint’s tactics was the two wings. When both were suppressed, Tomlin had no chance of doing damage up front, and without a supply of the ball, the big striker had spent the whole afternoon chasing shadows.

As for Osei, he had been completely starved. His pace was a wonderful counter-attacking weapon, but Villa could not counter at all in these conditions, especially without a proper holding man to keep possession in midfield and give the forwards time to breathe.

So Saint’s three changes were far more targeted than they looked. Teale could organise Lindley and the whole back line. Jurek could strengthen the wing attack and give Rocher a partner in arms. Reyes could finally hold the ball and bring some order to the middle.

”Is this lad using me to train his youngsters?” Watching the three substitutions, Garrity could not help a ridiculous thought drifting into his head.

It sounded absurd. Villa were two goals down at home to the champions of Europe, in their first game back in the top flight, and their manager had just taken off three players to give a teenager a lesson in defending. Surely nobody would be that bold.

But as the minutes passed, Garrity became more and more convinced of it, because Villa suddenly looked far better than they had before.

At the back, Teale’s voice kept Lindley from drifting into panic. Every time the teenager looked uncertain, a short, sharp instruction arrived from his left, and he cleared his head and acted.

In midfield, things slowly began to organise themselves around Reyes. He took the ball in tight spaces, turned out of trouble, and played the simple pass to the right man again and again, so calmly that the whole shape of the team seemed to settle.

On the flanks, Jurek’s quality was beyond doubt. Hollis could no longer hold him back at all, and the old captain was suddenly having to drop deeper and call for help. Even Rocher was beginning to show what he could do, and one low, quick run into the box brought the first real gasp from the home crowd all afternoon.

In the dugout, Saint still said nothing. But the corner of his mouth lifted, just slightly, and Cadman, glancing across, finally understood that none of this was an accident.